The Pale Door
The bell of St. Jude’s did not ring in harmony with the wind that night; it screamed. A single, sustained note tore through the valley fog, vibrating in the marrow of Sir Alaric Vane’s chest until he felt his teeth loosen in their sockets. He stood in the courtyard of the manor, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the leather worn smooth by years of loyal service. The air was thick...
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